Sins of the Fathers
by Brightness Wordweaver
Summary: Canonical gapfiller. Boromir reflects on the events that led to his being sent out on the quest to find Imladris, providing a glimpse of Denethor's less-than-optimal choices as a father.


The Company sat silently in a rough ring on the lawn of Parth Galen, waiting. Waiting for Frodo Baggins, Ringbearer, to return and tell them what to do, but also waiting for a sign, some guidance as to what path to take. Of the seven there, Boromir knew he was the only one certain of his destination. He had known from the beginning of the quest: he must return to Minas Tirith, to his father; traveling with this little halfling and his dubious suicide mission was only a wayside adventure. Though if he might gain by it some assistance for his people, he would not be displeased. This Man of the North, Strider the little folk called him, had as good as promised to come, but that was before Gandalf their guide had fallen in Moria. The Elf and the Dwarf had some skill, it seemed. As for the Halflings, well, they could do but little, but they might come if it would induce the Ringbearer to turn from the peril of Mordor. Less than ever did Boromir understand the insistence of Frodo son of Drogo on making his way into that black land.

The land around them was quiet and peaceful, with not an Orc to disturb the serenity. Boromir had never known his own homeland to be so untouched by the noise and stain of war-such days were only known to him in the faint stories of days gone by. Yet it seemed to him that even as he sat there, just on the outskirts of the Company, he could hear the sounds of battle and strife assailing his city, as though carried to him on the wind from far away.

_I should have stayed to fight for them_, he thought. _It might have been fruitless, yes, but less so than this quest that has availed me naught. It was ever Faramir's wish to depart in my stead. Why did I not send him at the last, riding out in the morning, and leaving me at least to hope?_

"Tell me about the dream."

They were walking to meet with their father, Denethor, steward of the City, and it was morning. The sun shone clearly and all seemed well-as well as it could when the Enemy was harrying their forces more than ever-but Faramir had had a dream.

"I do not remember much. Only that everything seemed dark, and growing darker, but the West had remained in the light. There was a voice that cried out, and it spoke a rhyme. The words were words of power-they spoke of Doom, and Isildur's Bane, and a place called Imladris. And of something called a Halfling."

"These are strange enough," Boromir answered carefully, "but they are more likely a token of a strain in your mind, with the press of war and the recent loss of Osgiliath. Perhaps if it comes again-"

"It already has." Faramir's expression was guarded, but serious. "This was the third time it has come. The first time was the night before Osgiliath was attacked."

Silence fell between the two brothers as they came to a halt.

"I thought first of speaking to Mithrandir," Faramir added. "But he has but lately gone away, and no one may tell when he will return. So I must seek Father's counsel, if anyone's."

Boromir looked into his brother's eyes, hoping to read therin something of the trouble behind them. Their father, he knew, could do this easily, and so could Faramir himself, and so could many of their greater sires in days gone by, before the blood of Men was diluted and the kings of ancient days became legend. But Boromir could only see what lay on the face, on the surface. Faramir's heart was unsearchable to him.

"Perhaps you should tell Father, then," he said slowly. "Since Mithrandir is, as you say, gone from here."

Faramir smiled, but not wholeheartedly. "Even so." And the two men continued on.

The Steward of the City was rarely in a pleasant mood in these days of constant war, and less so than ever since the loss of Osgiliath. This day was no exception. He sat as ever at the foot of the throne, leaning forward on his staff, a grim expression on his face. Yet he retained still the dignity of ancient days that he had ever borne, and Boromir could not help but wonder, as he had often done before, why his father had not long since been made king.

Ostensibly, they were there to discuss stratagems that the three of them would decide on. In truth, both brothers knew that Denethor would do as he pleased in the end, regardless of what they advised.

"Speak, my sons," the Steward pronounced. "I would hear your counsel." He addressed both of them, but was looking to the older of his sons.

It was Faramir, however, who spoke. "The host of Mordor is too numerous for us to turn them back immediately, worn down as we are. Let us keep a watch on the bank of the River we yet hold, and send small bands of men in secret to harrass the Orcs in Ithilien. In this way, we shall weaken them, and build up strength ourselves, until we are able to attack them in force. Then we shall drive them back."

Denethor nodded. "And what say you, Boromir? What would you have us do concerning Osgiliath?"

Desires warred in Boromir's heart. Hunger for honor, aided by knowledge of what his father wished to hear, won out. "There is merit in what Faramir speaks," he said slowly. "Yet it likes me little that we should leave this weakness in our defenses unaddressed. I would take a srong host, the mightiest men we have, and attack the host before they have opportunity to firmly establish themselves. They will not expect us to return so soon, and we will take them by surprise."

Before Denethor could respond, Faramir spoke. "My brother, your plan would seem both wise and valorous were it not for the danger to the lives of our men, who are few enough already and weary from battle. There are larger things afoot than mere border skirmishes, and we must be ready when greater battle is joined." In a softer voice he added, "There will be time enough for deeds of valor then."

"Enough." The voice of the Steward rang out from his chair, silencing the argument before it could begin. "It is true that our men are few in number, but they are doughty, and we ignore this gap in our defences to our peril. Boromir, you shall muster men to strike against Osgiliath before the hordes have sufficient time to rebuild the fortifications."

Faramir's gaze fell to the stone paving of the floor. Boromir, unwilling to meet the eyes of either father or brother, fixed on a point just above Denethor's left shoulder.

"If there is nothing more to be said, then go about your business," Denethor concluded.

As soon as they had left Denethor's presence, Boromir turned to his brother. "Be angry with me if you will, but I spoke as I thought best."

"I am not angry, and if I were it would not be with you." Faramir sighed. "There are ways by which we might combine the show of force and protection of our ancient borders that Father wishes with tactics that do not waste lives in death-or-glory charges. But today he was in no mood to hear me."

"In any case, we shall cost the Black Armies many soldiers for each man of ours that falls." Seeing that this did not improve Faramir's mood, Boromir sought for another approach. "Why did you not tell Father of your dream? He knew you were keeping something back; even I could see that."

Faramir sighed. "Father would not have listened," he said. "He would have dismissed it as the fruit of a mind over-burdened with lore and wizard's teaching. Already he thinks of me as concerned too little with the advancement and victory of Gondor, and too reluctant to fight for the City."

"If he belittles you for seeking the learning that has made him great, he is less wise than he claims," Boromir countered. "And surely no one who has seen you in arms could doubt your willingness to fight at need."

"Yes, but he and I hold very different meanings of need. I do not go to war for its own sake, or for the sake of the glory to be had. Yet this battle-love is what Minas Tirith most needs at this time, or so he deems, and so he honors you because you possess it and I do not."

As Boromir pondered this, Faramir spoke again. "If you had had a dream of doom or hope, he would listen to you."

"He would know it was a lie. Our father has the gift of searching men's hearts, and more than that, he knows it is you, not I, who is more suited for far sight."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he would seize upon any hope, any weapon, that could save Gondor. He already wants you to be right," Faramir said.

"The dream did not speak of a weapon," Boromir argued, "unless you failed to mention it. Besides, if it is I he values as defender of the Tower of Guard, as you claim, then why should he send me far afield on a wild quest to find this...Imildras?"

"The rhyme named it Imladris," Faramir answered. "I do not think he will send you at all. I think he will heed your words, and send me out to follow them, keeping you here close to home."

"So," said Denethor, leaning forward on his staff, "you have had a dream of Isildur's Bane."

Boromir, standing before the Steward's Chair, tried to read his father's face, to find interest or skepticism or mere boredom written there, but he could only trace the same stoic expression he had known sicne boyhood. He resisted the temptation to glance at Faramir, who stood silently to his right and a little behind him.

"Yes, my lord," he said carefully. "The voice out of the West said this thing was to be found in a place called Imladris, though it did not say where to find this place. It also spoke of the Sword That Was Broken-"

"Yes, yes, you need not repeat the whole of the rhyme," Denethor cut him off. "My wits are not yet grown so aged that they cannot grasp a matter for more than five minutes together."

Boromir's thoughts flew unintended to the long hours spent with Faramir, learning by heart the words of the strange rhyme and all the various details of the dream. It had come to Faramir twice more in the intervening time, and such intense study had they made of it that Boromir half-believed that he had dreamt it.

"The dream has also come to Faramir many times, my father, as well as to me," he added, "and we have had long speech concerning what it might mean. If indeed tokens of Isildur are coming to light, should we not seek them out and seek to use them in our never-ceasing struggle against the Enemy? Or at the very least, should we not do what we can to put them out of his reach?"

Silence fell over the room, as Denethor seemed to consider. Still Boromir resisted looking around. The quiet seemed to stretch on interminably, broken only by a bird's cry far out in the city.

At length Faramir broke the silence. "My father, let me go and seek for this Imladris. You have said yourself that Boromir's plans for the retaking of Osgiliath are more apt; while he pursues these, you will have little use for me except as one more warrior. Minas Tirith will lose nothing by my absence, and may have much to gain."

Denethor bent his piercing gaze on the younger man. "So you say," he murmured. "But I wonder. Do you not rather seek to evade my watch, and go out to seek Mithrandir that he may come and overturn all my policies? I know your mind.

"But one true thing has been spoken in this council: if weapons or tokens of the ancient days are coming to light, we ignore them at our peril. Boromir shall go forth and seek this Isildur's Bane, this Imladris. For I know," he now addressed Boromir, "that you will not shrink from what must be done, nor be taught by strangers for their own ends."

Denethor rose. "It shall be done so. I do not believe there is anything more to be said on this matter."

To Boromir's surprise, Faramir accompanied him to the stables on the morning he was to set out. Not many words had passed between the two since the council with Denethor; Boromir had avoided his brother's presence, expecting anger at their father's choice. He said as much, as one of the grooms led out a horse to take him as far as Rohan.

"I am not disappointed in you. If anything, I should have anticipated Father's choice," Faramir said. "The mistake was mine, to draw his attention to me. He was not far wrong, in guessing that I wished to flee from here. I could not have hoped to disguise it."

This took Boromir by surprise. Denethor had always been rather unreasonable where Mithrandir was concerned, and he had taken the most recent outburst as simply more of the same. "Surely you would not run away from battle?"

"Not from battle, no. But there are other things in Minas Tirith that one might wish to leave behind for a time," Faramir answered. His face was undecipherable. "It is of no matter. Do not be concerned for me; if I must remain, I will endeavor to have some say in the policies of our armies. A frontal assault on Osgiliath will not come as long as I can delay it. If you will return with a mighty weapon, do so with speed!"

Boromir nodded, and attempted a smile. "You can be sure of it."

Faramir turned to go, then turned back, and spoke in an undertone. "Whatever comes of this, you will make him prouder than I ever could."

On the green grass of Parth Galen, the Company still awaited the Ringbearer's decision, but Boromir had already reached his own. He had come to bring hope to Gondor, to his people, and he alone of all the Company was willing at the last to stand and do what was necessary to preserve their last, desperate defence. If Frodo son of Drogo were permitted to continue on towards the Black Land, that hope would die with the Ring. He, Boromir, ought to take it-after all, it had belonged to Gondor originally. With such mighty power, the Enemy might be destroyed at last. Gondor would return to the peaceful realm he had never known it to be.

That he was the lesser son of greater men, Boromir knew well. That Faramir-learned and deepsighted-would have been a better ambassador to Imladris and Lothlorien, he suspected. That he, Boromir, was undeserving of the honor, questing and otherwise, that his father bestowed on him, he was certain.

_Father, I will make you proud. I will _earn_ your pride. Faramir would have brought you Mithrandir-I will bring you the Ring of Power that seals the foundations of the Dark Tower itself!_

He slipped away from the little circle of the Company. No one noticed him as he made his way into the woods, following the path Frodo had taken. And the West Wind blew along the river, and on the far bank, a flight of birds startled into the air, as the distant pounding of battle drew near and hardened into reality.


End file.
